I loved you, I did. I believe I even sold myself a bit: on your love, my lust, your hair and just the way we stood there. How the air smelled of you, the way your shirt was cursed with blues. The way we danced by the ocean in front your mini-garden. The white fence, your loveliness and the heavenly kisses. It’ll always be the sheets, lying beside, holding your arm and kissing your hair in a loving stride.

Who knows if you’re alive anymore, but better yet, who knows if I’m even alive anymore?

I’ll never know if it was figuratively or literally when he said I drove him crazy.

I don’t believe he deserves the thousands of poems I’ve written about him, but life doesn’t follow rules. We do things for people who don’t necessarily deserve it. But we liked it, we loved it and fell in love enough to write about it.

I see you in every passing moment.

What if I were to wish upon a blood moon that I could have you standing here and I standing there? And when it happens to arrive in eighteen years, that you’ll be there, waiting for me like I’ll be waiting for you. As we did on the night where the moon shined down and I saw you standing in white with eyes that could ignite and a fire which couldn’t quite die.

I smell him in intervals, in varieties, in ways I don’t quite understand.

I never expected you to understand, but I did expect you to be there.

I pushed him against his Jeep, looked him dead in the eye and kissed him. He asked if he could come up, and I just walked up the steps and said, not yet. That was the moment I knew I loved him.